Prescribed torture

I thought I’d lucked out when I entered the sex club first thing this morning and didn’t see my normal purveyor of torture. Without him there, only three tiny females and one male ruled in the room. Since two women and two other men held the male’s attention, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Feeling confident, I strutted about the expansive space. Even in pain, I could take the chics out if I had to. My last candy bar weighed more than them. Clearly that meant I was safe, right? In store for only light play before the fun happened?

I should’ve known better.

Instead, management sicced two of the tiny females (from this point on known as Dommes-in-training) on me, and they were relentless, forcing me to do things with balls I’d never voluntarily do. Ever. While other patrons watched me on display as they screamed out their own agony, it became apparent the female I had yet to meet was the head Mistress. Where others doled out pain, her hands induced blissful moans.

I couldn’t wait to have her hands on me.

After an hour, the Dommes-in-training noticed my fascination and giggled, telling me I was next. That should’ve warned me. And probably would have had agony not been humming its rage through my veins.

Yet as they continued to prepare me for her, my body yielded to their will, knowing pleasure was just one step away. I didn’t care that five people had already had her before me. I didn’t care that three more still waited for their turn after me. All that mattered was that soon she would be mine.

By the time they laid me at Mistress’s feet, I shook from my head to my toes, pain and anticipation warring for winner. It felt like I’d waited my entire life to know the gift of her hands, and I glided in a haze as she positioned me for her favor.

The first touch was pure heaven, I almost begged her to be my permanent Mistress and never send me back to HIM. In fact, the words hung on the tip of my tongue at the exact moment her hands morphed into ruthless talons digging at my already brutalized flesh and frayed muscles.

Four hours later, I’m still not sure how I managed to walk out of there on my own, but two things are certain: 1) I have officially renamed my physical therapist’s office “Scream My Name”, and 2) my gift to them upon my completion of my prescription to hell will be a t-shirt that reads “PT: The new S&M.”